The Alchemy Avalon
by Moony3003
Summary: Every Friday night Sherlock and John disappear and Mycroft wants to know where they go. Rated T to be sure. Not slash.


**Disclaimer: **Sherlock doesn't belong to me.

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Rated T to be safe.

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Dedicated to Sgt. who gave me the idea for this story.

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The Alchemy Avalon

The clock ticked unusually loud and for the third time in seconds, John checked his watch. It seemed as though the thin black hands hadn't moved from when he'd last checked it. The paperwork on his desk had been slowly piling up since the morning and none of it had been finished because he knew he had more patients to see then usual and he had somewhere to be.

The crystal-clear blue eyes wandered across the desk and across the floor to the woman standing at the table, half her clothes lying on a chair just beside her. She was his last patient for the day and despite being the good doctor he was, he still needed to treat her with patience and give her the proper time and attention that he'd given all the others before her.

But he was going to be late and he knew what that meant. The reaction of his flatmate was something he wasn't looking forward to. Not once since they'd started this had either one of them been late and now he was going to disappoint.

Getting up from his desk, John approached her, gesturing for her to sit on the table. He could see it already. The woman's skin was red and covered in blisters. Bending down, John moved in closer for a better look.

"Mrs. Benson, are you allergic to anything?"

There was a slight shrug from the petite blonde. "Not that I know of."

"Hmm..." the doctor muttered. Standing tall, something occurred to him. Pointing at the woman's clothes he asked, "May I?"

Hesitantly, she nodded, a slight frown making an appearance. John reached for the black trousers first and looked them over. They were clean. Next, he reached for the yellow nylon shirt and soon, he was sure he found his answer.

"Mrs. Benson, I think you're allergic to nylon."

"What?" she asked, the frown deepening.

"Your shirt is made of nylon and there are small drops of blood on the inside where a couple of blisters have popped open, see," he said, showing her what he'd found. Putting it down, John went back to his desk and picked up his pen before scribbling on his prescription pad. "You can get dressed now. I'm going prescribe you some anti-inflammatories to treat the skin rash. You should avoid wearing nylon. Cotton would probably be the best way to go."

The sound of ripping paper followed and John handed her the prescription before bidding her a goodnight. With the close of the thick white door, John sighed heavily, his shoulder slumping a great deal. With another look at the clock, John moved into action, tidying up the desk hastily, placing all the paperwork together, and promising to come in tomorrow.

With a few long strides, he was out the door and into the cool night air. The sounds of life blasted in his face as people rushed around, going home, to work for the night, or out with friends. The amount of cabs that passed was numerous but all of them had passengers. He looked at his watch again. He was now ten minutes late.

A horn blared up the street, gaining his attention, along with others, wondering what had caused the sudden loud commotion. A long, shiny black car approached. His heart raced in his chest rapidly and his blood ran cold. But it didn't stop. A heavy sigh escaped him. Shaking his head lightly, he continued his brisk walk up the road, stopping abruptly when another car passed but one he was glad to see.

"Taxi!"

But the cab drove passed. It didn't even slow down, making John curse under his breath. There was no one in the back; he couldn't see why the driver didn't stop for him. Stepping back onto the sidewalk, he continued, walking even quicker than he had been previously.

The minutes passed by slowly but finally, John rounded the second last corner and sighed in relief, happy that he was almost there. And at this rate, he'd only be fifteen minutes late. The street was narrower, with fewer cars and while he could, John enjoyed the slight peace he was receiving. It would be the last of it for most of the night.

At a familiar sight in his peripheral vision John slowed down in his tracks. A black car pulled up to the curb and stopped. John's blood ran cold once again at the familiarity of the vehicle. He was sure it was the same one he'd seen drive by not even five minutes ago. It was the same colour and it shone with the same gleam under the spotlights overhead.

After a minute, the driver got out and came around towards him, opening the back door. John frowned faintly, hoping that it wasn't who he was expecting it to be. But the hope was shattered as a familiarly smug voice reached him.

"Get in the car, Dr. Watson."

John turned his head away from the car and glanced up the other end of the street. The thought of running for it instantly came to mind but the car would just follow and easily so, telling the man inside the car exactly where he was off to. With an inaudible sigh, John stepped forward and slid into the backseat, jumping faintly at the snap of the door closing next to him.

"Good to see you again."

John's head pivoted to his right and locked eyes with Mycroft Holmes. The grey eyes of the other man bore right through him and within seconds, John looked away, feeling exposed. He wished he could say the same to the man beside him. Another door slammed shut. The driver was back in the front seat and the engine revved a couple times but they didn't move. A clicking sound turned his eyes to the passenger seat where a familiar figure sat. The brown hair and outline of a dark tailored suit was unmistakable.

"How are things?" asked Mycroft, smoothing out his flawless grey trousers.

John's usual patience was gone. "What do you want?" he asked, a little harsher than intended.

"I want to contact my brother although it is proving to be an impossible task," said Mycroft, his tone changing to one of all business. "And I know something isn't right."

"Right?"

"I know certain things," said Mycroft inexplicably. "I know that you and my brother are never home Friday nights but where you go remains a mystery."

"Really?" asked John, genuine surprise flashing across his features. "Sherlock keeps telling me how you are the British government."

The elder Holmes dismissed the statement with a lazy wave of his hand. "Surely by now you know how much my brother loves to exaggerate. Now tell me, why is he hard to contact?"

"You could try calling him."

"I have. He never answers," said Mycroft, his tone showing his annoyance. "Where do you both go every Friday night?"

"Perhaps you should try coming round to the flat instead of spying," said John irritably, shifting in his seat.

"Dr. Watson, do not try my patience any further," said Mycroft sternly. "Where do you go each week?"

John shook his head, exhaling in disbelief. "Why does it matter?"

"You already know the answer to that," said Mycroft, his voice softening. "I worry about him."

"He's not a child..."

"No, but he does childish things," interrupted Mycroft. "He's good at getting himself into troubling situations and I have the distinct feeling that this disappearing every Friday night is becoming another one."

"It's not," said John assuredly. "I'm there with him and as you know, I'm a doctor. Nothing's going to happen to him."

"I want to see it for myself."

John laughed as he shook his head again. "No," he said, locking eyes with Mycroft. "I can't. Besides, you won't be able to get in."

"And why is that?"

"You have to be a fighter or a regular associate of one to get in," explained John. "And you're neither. So, I guess I'll be off then," he added reaching for the silver handle.

"Dr. Watson!" Mycroft shouted, startling both the driver and Anthea. John's hand stilled as he waited for what he had to say. "You will find a way to get me into that club or..."

"Or what?" asked John, looking at him.

Mycroft's head inclined to the side and a slight smirk touched his lips but no words left his mouth. It was a silent threat and after a moment's thought, John decided not to risk it. Sighing, he sat back in his seat and removed his hand from the handle.

"Fine," he hissed. "It's at the end of Craven Street."

At the nod of Mycroft's head, the car began to move. It took less than five minutes to arrive at the right place. Both men emerged from the car and stepped onto the curb. A disgruntled snort from Mycroft had John's eyes on him in an instant. The taller man looked up and down the street, looking somewhat disappointed.

"No cameras here... Hmm... I don't know how this street was missed."

"Well, you're bound to miss some things," muttered John under his breath.

"The Alchemy Avalon," mumbled Mycroft, noticing the sign overhead.

"Yes, well, Sherlock thought it was clever compared to other ones we found. He said they were too obvious."

"Quite right," said Mycroft as they approached.

The steel grey eyes looked over the building with contempt. The smooth black columns fronted the exterior along with high windows lined in grime around the outsides. The name of the club hung above them in grimy gold letters and it swung creakily on its thin hinges as they walked underneath. The heavy black door opened slowly and a pair of misty green eyes appeared.

"Watson," came a friendly voice. "Didn't think you were coming tonight?"

"Yeah," John said hastily, clearing his throat. "I was just running a little late. Sherlock here?"

"As always," said the man behind the door. "He was here at six on the dot. Who's this with you?"

"Uh... an associate," said John, choosing his words carefully. "He's interested in becoming a regular."

The eyes in the doorway narrowed slightly and looked between the two men. "Yeah... alright," he growled. "Just this once, John."

"Thank you," said John in relief as he stepped through, feeling the taller man following behind him.

The inside was not what Mycroft had been expecting. From the outside it almost looked like a respectable place, minus the grim and dirt, but the inside showed something different. It was full of dusty tables and empty seats and a broken wooden floor. The front room was empty, but an explosion of noise hit them square in the face, clearly affecting Mycroft, who followed John towards a back door.

They went downstairs and he found himself in another, larger room. This was one even worse looking than the one upstairs. There were no windows that he could see and no ventilation system to filter in clean breathable air. The floor so far was covered in peanut shells and the odd piece of glass, which all crunched under their feet.

They came to a stop in the middle of the room and Mycroft took another glance around. In the far corner he could see a large group of mostly men crowded around a wooden barrier, which featured two men who were fighting with their fists. Others were either talking, drinking or betting or a combination of all three.

By one of the tables a tall man dressed in a black wool coat with a blue scarf tightly fitted around his neck caught their attention. Sherlock Holmes was in seemingly deep conversation with a man who fitted the description of a fighter. He wore cut off pants and thick protective shoes and his chest was bare, showing his rippling muscles that were dripping with sweat.

John began to approach but at hearing Mycroft follow, he stopped and turned, holding up one hand. "I think I should go over and explain," he said quickly. "It might go down easier."

"Three minutes, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft quietly, wearily eyeing a partially naked and bleeding man that crossed his path.

John muttered his thanks under his breath and moved towards the two tall men in his sight. At his approach, both ceased in their discussion and turned to look at him. Sherlock's pale face broke into a wide grin that reached his eyes. The blue orbs sparkled with excitement as he reached in and pulled out a wad of cash and waved it in his face.

"This is what I've been up to," he said, answering John's inquisitive look. "Anton here managed a pretty decent yet quick fight that I bet on. Why are you late?"

"Had a lot of patients to see," replied John. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he added, feeling guilty. "I got here as soon as I could."

Sherlock sniffed at the air. Something had caught his attention. He looked John up and down. A look of guilt swept across John's features and for a moment Sherlock's own darkened.

"Normally after being at the surgery you smell like disinfectant but tonight that's not the case..." said Sherlock slowly, his eyes lifting to look the room over. "You smell like..." Sherlock's sentence was abruptly cut short and his eyes stopped cold. "… my brother's cologne. I thought it was horribly familiar."

Instantly, John frowned and grabbed at his jacket, giving it a quick whiff. He sighed in annoyance at how Sherlock was right once again and it was something he had clearly missed. Holding up a hand to keep Sherlock at bay, John opened his mouth to speak but the consulting detective beat him to it.

"What is he doing here, John?"

The tone was unmistakable. He was angry and clearly, the anger was still building. Each of Sherlock's features tensed and his body went completely still. He invaded John's personal space and looked down on him, his nostrils flaring.

"You promised."

"Sherlock, he's concerned about you," said John quickly. "He just wanted to come here and see what we get up to and then he's going to leave."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft, who suddenly appeared beside them.

"What are you really doing here, Mycroft?" asked Sherlock, turning his anger onto his older brother. "Come to destroy one of my hobbies like always?"

"I don't know what you mean..."

"Remember that stamp collection I had as a child and you were jealous, telling mother you wanted in, which she let you. You spoiled it, Mycroft. Now here you are to spoil yet another one."

"I am simply looking out for your safety, Sherlock," said Mycroft in a gentle voice. "Just like I always have. You're my baby brother. It's my responsibility to look out for you."

"I'm not a child, Mycroft," hissed Sherlock dangerously. "I can look after myself. Besides, I have a doctor for a flatmate. He does a better job of looking after me than you ever did."

"Yes, of course he does," said Mycroft in mock agreement. "He indulges your every whim, encourages your chasing of London's lowlifes and now, it seems he's a supporter of your desires to have someone beat you silly."

"Well, to be fair-"

Sherlock's sentence was cut short and he let out a cry of surprise as he was swiftly lifted from the ground and thrown metres away from where he had been standing. Both John and Mycroft staggered backwards before running towards the round, wooden enclosure that the detective had been thrown into.

Sherlock lay there, unmoving for a moment before a groan rolled from his mouth and he stumbled to his knees, the sand from the floor sticking lightly to his clothes, chin and cheek. The large frame of a man jumped the barrier and took two steps forwards, his hands cracking menacingly.

"Get out," he snapped at the two fighters who were hadn't finished their fight.

Both immediately followed the order and jumped out of the ring, not wanting to get in the way of the man's large fists.

"Get up," he growled.

The crowd went silent as they watched the events before them unfold. Mycroft leaned down slightly and whispered to the rigid doctor beside him.

"Who is that?"

"Monty," said John almost inaudibly. "Not his real name of course. He fought Sherlock a few weeks ago and Monty lost... quite badly if I remember correctly. He threatened Sherlock afterwards, saying he'd be back." John hesitated before saying more. "Sherlock also beat the man's nephew… put him in hospital."

"Maybe I didn't make myself clear," said Monty thickly. "Get up and face me like a man."

The consulting detective was wordless as he got to his feet and turned around, his hands removing the scarf and jacket, throwing them away, not caring where they landed. The pale blue eyes looked the man in front of him up and down. He looked just like he had last time, except for the scar that still donned the top of his bald head. Sherlock's mouth twitched at seeing it.

"So," said Sherlock perkily, rubbing his hands together. "How should we do this?"

"Last time, you cheated."

Sherlock's eyes widened, offended at the statement. "I won fair and square," he said firmly. "It's not my fault you're slow witted and heavy footed." Ignoring the brute in front of him, Sherlock found where John and his brother were standing and he approached, pointing at his brother while speaking to John. "Get him out here. Now. I don't want him here."

A gasp echoed up from the thickening crowd as Sherlock was grabbed up the shoulders and swung to the other side of the ring, hitting the wooden barrier, sliding down against it heavily. John squeezed his way to the front, placing his hands against the sides. Mycroft joined him and stared at Sherlock long with him.

"Get up you weak little man," taunted Monty, sneering.

But Sherlock didn't move prompting Monty to storm over and pick the detective up off the ground and lift him high into the air, his legs dangling at least a metre from the ground. The sneer upon his face become slightly more pronounced as many little things flashed through his mind at what he could do.

"This is for my nephew," he hissed throwing Sherlock back to the ground, hard.

The sound of clothes ripping filled the air and the tattered white material littered in the sand around his feet. Monty stood tall; the lights above him showing the rippled chest that glittered with flecks of sweat. His biceps flexed as he reached down and pinned Sherlock to the ground with one hand while the other reached back and his fingers curled into a fist.

One, two, three punches hit Sherlock square in the face, the distinct cracking of cartilage resonating, telling John that his nose had been broken or at least dislocated.

Finally, the crowd erupted into cheer at the sudden match of the night started in front of them. At the noise Sherlock reacted, his arms flying up as though try to push Monty off him. But the attempt failed making Monty laugh deep with contempt.

"You're weak, little man," he taunted. "Weak and pathetic."

Following his words Monty grabbed a handful of Sherlock's previously crisp white shirt and hauled him up to his feet. Sherlock made an attempted forward but wasn't quick enough and Monty's knee connected with Sherlock's stomach, winding him and sending him back the ground with a cracking thud.

At the sides both John and Mycroft stood rigid, watching as the beating got worse. The backs of John's hands turned stark white and lightly he muttered under his breath for Sherlock to get up and stop messing around. Movement beside him turned his attention away from the ring. The elder Holmes had taken out his mobile phone and was dialling a number. Without a second thought, John reached out and snatched the phone from his grasp. Mycroft turned on him but John spoke first.

"Give him time," he hushed, his voice low. "I've seen Sherlock do this before. You need to have more faith in him. Trust his instincts for once."

There was a slight pause and Mycroft's upper lip curled.

"If you're wrong about this..."

"I'm not," said John firmly, offering him back his phone.

Gently, Mycroft took it and with a final long look at the man opposite, he turned the phone off and put it back in his breast pocket. Their attention was back on the main action in time for them to see Sherlock brought back to his feet and released. Amazingly, he stood on his own albeit a little wobbly.

The detective's eyes fluttered rapidly before they opened wide, focusing on the big man in front of him. They locked eyes and with little effort Sherlock removed his suit jacket along with the crumpled white shirt, dropping them where he stood.

Monty shifted his stance and growled menacingly, but he didn't move. He only watched as Sherlock readied himself, getting his own stance correct. The seconds passed slowly but gradually Sherlock raised his arms and with one hand he gestured at the man opposite to attack. The taunt went down badly and Monty yelled out in anger and frustration.

The crowd erupted to a deafening level as both men clashed, the sound of skin slapping filling the air loudly. Monty was first to free himself enough to send a fist towards Sherlock's shoulder, which hit although the detective showed no signs of feeling it.

Another blow came towards him but this time; Sherlock blocked it and fended off the second. Pushing Monty's arms away from him and with a well-aimed punch he connected with the lower abdomen, winding him.

With Monty doubled over Sherlock took a step back and raised his arms to the crowd, igniting their cheers even further. John and Mycroft exchanged looks of relief and watching as Sherlock went into the finish the man off. Punches from each side came and the odd deflect when it was needed and with a sweep to the legs Monty went down, the cracking of his back unmistakable.

With his left hand Sherlock held him against the ground and returned the favour with three punches to the middle of the face, breaking his nose. Before long the ring was unlocked and John rushed forwards, grabbing Sherlock in time just as his knees gave way. He dragged Sherlock from the ring and upstairs, into fresher air.

As he sat Sherlock in one of the many empty chairs, he got to his knees and reached up, cupping the detective's face, forcing the man to meet his eye. The blue eyes above him were misty and appeared clouded over.

"Come on, let's go home," said John, standing up.

"N-no... I- I..."

"You might have a concussion," said John firmly.

The door from downstairs opened and John turned, watching as Mycroft walked in holding Sherlock's clothes along with a sizable amount of cash. He threw both onto the table, the noise making Sherlock jump lightly.

"What...?"

"Your winnings," said Mycroft quietly. He bent down and looked his brother over. "You look like hell."

Sherlock chuckled in response. He reached for John but found air. "John? I thought we were going home? John?"

"I'm here," said John, untangling Sherlock's clothes and putting the jacket around him, deciding the shirt didn't matter. It'd all have to be taken off when they got home anyway.

"I'll give you a lift," said Mycroft, walking to the door.

Holding him gently, John got Sherlock back to his feet and supported him as they walked outside, a light and cool fresh breeze washed over them. John felt Sherlock shiver beside him but he said nothing. They just got into the car and silently, they headed for Baker Street.

"I don't want his happening anymore, John," said Mycroft.

The doctor sighed and shifted slightly in his position, but didn't let go of Sherlock. "Mycroft... you know how Sherlock is," he said. "He's going to do what he wants to do. Surely, you know that by now?"

The elder Holmes looked down at his lap, the look of defeat flashing across his otherwise passive features. "I want to protect him."

"And you can," whispered John. "But not by trying to control him. I've learnt to support Sherlock and be there when something goes wrong. And he's right, you know. He's not a child and you shouldn't try to treat him as one. I have a sibling myself so I know how protectiveness can ruin things but don't let your worry for him disrupt things any more than they already have. If you want to protect him, you'll just have to find another way."

"Perhaps you're right, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft quietly after a moment's thought.

When they reached Baker Street, the car pulled over and John wasted no time in getting out, taking an almost unconscious Sherlock with him. As soon as the back door slammed shut, the black car drove away and disappeared in to the darkness up ahead. John continued to stare up the street after the car was gone, hoping that Mycroft would heed his words.


End file.
